No Such Thing as Happiness and Other Joyful Thoughts...

Okay, I said today I'd talk about happiness.

Let me preface this whole discussion by stating that today, right now, this moment, I'm "happy"--I finally made my doctor's appointment today and had my ultrasound, which showed that curled up inside me right now is a little baby boy, all fingers and toes and organs in the right places, with a beautifully beating heart. I saw the curve of his tiny spine and the four chambers of his heart pumping in amazing rhythm. Since I'd already gone through all of this with child #1, I thought I'd be a bit more jaded, but I wasn't. Seeing him on the black and white screen took my breath away.

I'm happy because in 2005 I had 2 other ultrasounds, one in July and another in November. Both of those were supposed to show tiny babies, one at 10 weeks and the other at 6 weeks, and both were terrifyingly empty, showing a void that stretched out like a tomb. So seeing my baby boy on that screen today was a miracle of sorts, and I'm very grateful. I'm joyful. I'm, well, happy. For the moment.

See, 2005 was the year I learned that what I'd always considered happiness was a fleeting, illusory thing. An uncatchable butterfly. It's a lesson I learned, as I learn most important lessons, the hard way. The hardest.

It's an American thing, the pursuit of happiness. It's literally part of our Declaration of Independence. And it certainly plays a key role in American suburban life. That's why all us suburbanites are here, for the most part: the pursuit of a better life, better schools, safer neighborhoods, bigger yards and more-house-for-the-money. And bigger and better should make us more comfortable. And being more comfortable should make us...happy.

I bought that hook, line, and sinker when we moved here. I was the new mother of a 4-month-old baby, leaving the city where I had lived for 10 years. We left the city for a lot of reasons--foremost among them because the job opportunities for my husband in Atlanta were far better than where we were before. We were buying in to the American dream--I was going to be a stay-at-home mom to our son, we were going to be closer to our extended family, we were going to have a nice back yard with room for a grill and patio furniture and a house that wasn't falling down around our ears in disrepair.

But happiness, at least what I thought was happiness, has proved to be difficult to find, and not at all attached to any of the things I was told would bring happiness. I thought happiness was something I could acquire through the creation of the environment I chose, an environment of safety (I'm a fearful girl, laden with neuroses, and safety is always right up there next to cleanliness and Godliness for me) and beauty; one of wealth and comfort. I believed that is was up to me to create my own happiness.

But then in 2005, my grandfather died. And I miscarried twice. And my dear, sweet father-in-law suddenly died of complications from a massive stroke at the ridiculously young age of 59. And as my own grief swept over me in tidal waves, I would turn on the television for comfort and instead see image after indelible image of the devastating effects of Hurricane Katrina: the houses smashed flat, the streets flooded with putrid water, the bodies left undiginified and alone in deserted corners, the precious belongings of thousands of families floating in the black water like dead things. There was no protection against this, against death or flood or destruction. They happened in an instant. My acquired happiness was useless in the face of such things. All I saw was sadness, and evil, and the black soul of nature ripped wide like a wound.

My vision changed because of all this. When I would drive down the road to take my son to preschool, I used to see the beds of flowers planted in neat rows at the entrances to the subdivisions, the blooming crape myrtles and birds and butterflies. Now my eyes could only see the roadkill on the sides of the streets, the dead squirrels and possums, the way the trash piled up in gray, helpless lumps beside the sewers.

I tried to find solace in nature. I had grown up in the rural Pine Barrens of Southern New Jersey, and by walking out my back door would be in the woods, surrounded by fragrant cedars and pines. The woods were my sanctuary as a child, and I looked for that now. But my vision was still impaired, and instead of beauty I saw a garden orb spider, huge and brown, spin her perfect web in my front window. I watched her snare insects in that web, watched as she pulled them close to her body and fed on them with a lethal relish both horrifying and fascinating to see.

I tried to buy happiness back. I would sit in front of my computer, too shattered to venture outside my house for very long, and I would order little gifts for myself and my family off the Internet. Toy trains for my son, CDs and books for my husband, clothes and books for me. I would get the packages delivered to my door and I would open them, waiting for the rush of elation, the lovely feeling of holding something new, and perfect, and spotless, of knowing that perfection was mine. But it was like buying heroin--the feeling would come for a moment, in a rush, then disappear as quickly.

I stopped believing in happiness as anything more than a momentary, fleeting emotion. It is impermanent. It is not real. This devastated me when I realized this--perhaps because I had seen happiness as some sort of defense against the darkness of this world, a shield of sorts. Something tangible I could hold and mold and use to make me invulnerable.

But realizing this leads to the ultimate next question: So what, then? If happiness is an illusion, and death and destruction and darkness are as real as flood waters and as cold as graves, what then? If this is true, what makes us get up in the morning and function, and not look for the nearest implement to end it all?

Ah. Good question, if I do say so myself. And I'm starting to formulate an answer, I think, although it looks nothing like I thought it would.

I'd love to tell you right now, but my son has woken up from his nap and is calling for me. End of my tea-and-conversation break for now, but there is more, much more...don't be put off by the darkness yet. There's more.

Tomorrow: The Secret of Joy